


It Wasn't...

by ReekaJean



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Big C (TV)
Genre: Based on RP, Cancer, Crossover, Hannibal is emotional, It's mostly narrative, Lee dies, Lee goes to Baltimore, M/M, Melanoma, Sad, The darkest day, There is no Will, With a little dialogue, heart tartare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5762302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReekaJean/pseuds/ReekaJean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't the annoying quirks of Lee Fallon's that Hannibal fell in love with. Not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Wasn't...

Meeting Lee Fallon was a fluke - a chance happening that the universe seemed to orchestrate. He was at first a patient, quickly a friend, and it wasn't long before Hannibal had started inviting the younger man over for dinners and wine, allowing himself to enjoy the progression of their relationship outside the confines of a therapist's office. Slow and steady, the other man had burrowed himself deep into Hannibal's chest, somewhere around his heart.

It couldn't have been the way he laughed too loud or the fact that his earbuds were perpetually hanging from his neck. It couldn't have been the way he explained away his illness as if it were an old friend. It wasn't his taste in music or how he had absolutely no problem rearranging furniture and reorganizing cabinets in Hannibal's house to allow for more positive energy, regardless of what Hannibal had wanted. 

“Trust me. You'll sleep better,” he had said one day, leading Hannibal upstairs to his bedroom while the doctor protested. 

“I sleep fine.” 

“Your eyes tell a different story, Dr. Lecter. Now, help me move the desk.” 

It wasn't that Lee knew what he had done and didn't care - Hannibal Lecter did not worry about what other people thought of him. Not really. It wasn't that during one particular evening that Hannibal was reading a psychology today article online, Lee came in, slipped his arms in front of him and with a few quick keypresses, he had pulled up a website with exquisite, classy videos. Amateur. Gay. Sensual. 

"The internet is for porn, Dr. Lecter, not for research," he had whispered in Hannibal's ear. 

It had not been the way Lee had pushed him against the wall after dinner and after a moment of open mouthed kisses, gentle bites and sucking on the skin covering his jugular, he had backed up, winked and left for his own apartment. 

Hannibal Lecter would not have fallen in love with someone who owned 4 shirts and 40 pairs of shoes. It wasn't the altar that had magically appeared in the corner of Hannibal's bedroom, the healing Buddha statue surrounded by candles that smelled of patchouli and sandalwood. 

“You're trying to tell me something,” Hannibal remarked over dinner the day after the items had been added to the corner of his sleeping space. 

“All in the name of positive energy.” Lee shrugged, trying to hide his grin as he swirled pasta around his fork and lifted it to his lips. 

“Do you really believe all of that?”

“Of course I do. And meditation works wonders. It's the best two hours of my day, usually. Well, it used to be,” he added, glancing up at Hannibal sitting across from him, his eyes sparkling and his smile nearly shy. 

The slow migration of his own diet to include vegetarian meals and more white meat than red had been something that he would never have put up with. 

Had he been sharing his meals with anyone else. 

"Are you going running with me this morning, Papa Bear?" Lee had asked after the first night he'd stayed over, his nose nuzzled behind Hannibal's ear and his hand sliding down his chest, fingers swirling over the greying hair. 

It wasn't the fact that when Hannibal turned to face him and pull him into a deep kiss that the running had been forgotten about in exchange for a morning of lazy exploration, touching, kissing and experimenting with sensation. Lee's hands, his mouth, his tongue, his body - they were like instruments of ecstasy in a connection he'd never felt before. 

It wasn't their connection. Soulmate material, Lee had teased. It hadn't been the beauty that happened when they were in each other's presence. It wasn't that they calmed each other, finished each other's thoughts, anticipated each other's actions. It wasn't the fact that they were more like one being in two bodies working in a perfect harmony. 

It had nothing to do with the fact that Hannibal stopped killing. 

It wasn't that Lee finally taught him how to meditate, or that he worked with him to add a Buddhist touch to Hannibal's wide psychological knowledge. It had not been that Lee helped him talk about his sister and his parents, and let them go without feeling as if he had let them down. 

“I couldn't protect her,” he had admitted quietly after meditation one morning. “I wanted to and I couldn't.” 

“You were a child.” 

“I was all she had.” 

Lee held the older man, his fingers slipping through Hannibal's hair as his lips pressed against his temple. “Tell me about her.” 

It wasn't that they could cook together, laughing in the kitchen, sometimes making more of a mess than a meal. It wasn't that the unfamiliar blue toothbrush kept his green one company one night and never left. It wasn't that he used all the hot water in the mornings, finally giving Hannibal reason to get out of bed before dawn while he was running. 

It wasn't the way he smelled like fresh linen hanging in the summer sun, even though the bitter reminder of his cancer stung his nose when he was least expecting it. It wasn't the simple, but beautiful ring that was given to him on Christmas. 

“What are you doing?” Hannibal asked, straining his ears to listen to the rustling as his eyes were closed behind his hands. 

“Almost ready… hang on…” 

“Lee…” 

“Open your eyes.” 

Hannibal did and the tears immediately welled in the corners, his heart tugging with genuine surprise and adoration as he looked at the man kneeling before him. 

“Marry me, Hannibal Lecter.” 

“Yes.” 

It definitely was not the fourteen flavors of cake, the thirty-eight types of flowers and the rainbow of colors to choose from for their wedding. It wasn't the fact that they were having a wedding at all. It had nothing to do with the fact that Lee would not let him cook and cater their own reception. 

It wasn't their first night married when Lee pulled out a vinyl of Ella Fitzgerald, poured wine and swayed with him to the music. It wasn't the soft, gentle kisses the man left over the back of his neck and across his shoulders. It wasn't the slow, deliberate lovemaking that followed and lasted late into the night. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

It wasn't the conversation that came six months later with tears and raised voices. It wasn't the fact that in spite of everything, the melanoma continued to progress. It wasn't the fact that Lee decided he would not continue with treatments and trials. Hannibal hated those moments, though they reminded him that it was okay to feel. 

“I can't keep doing it, Papa Bear,” Lee told him as they curled in bed, his fingers idly twirling through Hannibal's hair. 

“You're giving up.” 

“It's not about giving up. It's letting go. It's accepting that there are some things we just can't change. Letting go give--” 

“Gives us freedom,” Hannibal said simultaneously. “And freedom is the only condition for happiness.” 

“You did study. I'm impressed,” Lee said, grinning broadly as Hannibal finished the Thich Nhat Hanh quote. 

“I had a very good teacher.” 

“And you were the teacher's pet?” he teased, pulling Hannibal out of the thoughts of sadness and enjoying the moment of laughter. 

It wasn't the way that he kept making jokes until he couldn't laugh without his inhaler. It wasn't his insistence on running every day, even if he only made it to the mailbox and back. It wasn't the simple request he made the first day he couldn't get out of bed. 

“I want you to do something for me, Hannibal.” 

“Anything. What is it, Lee?” 

“I want you to cook for me.” 

“I do that all the time,” Hannibal had replied, a look of confusion on his face as he studied his husband as closely as he could. 

“No. I want you to cook for me like you used to. If I'm going to die, I'll be damned if I'm going to do it without tasting one of your more… exotic meals.” 

It wasn't the fact that Hannibal was able to release his grief, his fear, his anger at the universe for stealing yet another person he loved away from him. It wasn't how he cried as he killed the man who had been so cruel to Lee the last time they had gone to the Opera. It wasn't the way he strangled him, or the way he decided to forego the surgical precision of his past. It wasn't the mess he left after collecting the man's heart, unable to think clearly enough for anything creative. 

It wasn't the heart tartare that he presented that evening with cherry tomatoes, garlic chips and scallops. It wasn't the fact that Lee ate every bite, laughing at the fact he had gone from vegan to vegetarian to no red meat and now he had given it all up for cannibalism. It wasn't that his husband enjoyed it, kissed him afterwards and thanked him for such a beautiful meal. 

It wasn't that the next day brought Lee's admittance to the hospital. It wasn't the way he looked at the calendar, smiling sadly at Hannibal as he gripped his hand. It wasn't the soft murmuring of “It's the darkest day. At least tomorrow will be a little brighter.” It wasn't the way Hannibal cried, holding Lee's knuckles to his lips as he sat with him for his remaining hours. 

It wasn't the way Lee died that made Hannibal fall in love with him all over again. 

It was the way he lived.


End file.
